Tell me

I have been dilatory at blogging recently – plenty to reflect on but …. And here come excuses, but I have just read Anthony Wilson’s excellent blog on blogging and suddenly a penny has dropped. It’s not ‘blogging’ it’s writing. And to paraphrase Dorothy Parker, whom he quotes, there’s nothing quite like the feeling of having written.

In one of the poetry therapy groups I ran over a few years, one regular participant would write intensely in response to a particular prompt or poem and then emphatically put her pen down hard on the table, sit back, cross her arms and give a loud humph of satisfaction. Whatever it was (she didn’t always share her work), it was better out than in.

So blogging, like writing, like meditating, like going to church, like gardening, like walking the dog, like cooking is essentially a practice. A pleasurable one. A manageable one – my limit is five hundred words max. A sociable one. One to aim to do every day that I’m early enough at my desk.

I’m also just reminding myself of the premise of this blog – to reflect on a poem that in turn illuminates some aspect of my daily life – which is the premise of poetry therapy, which is my calling.

And as I haven’t blogged for ages, and it’s an easy one to choose, and you all know it, and poetry works with what Anna Akhmatova called ‘the blessedness of repetition’, I offer you Mary Oliver’s The Summer Day.

It’s clearly not summer (although we’ve had glorious autumn days) but I am about to head to the station to meet the wonderful Mary Reynolds Thompson who is committed to working with the wild – simultaneously in our inner and outer worlds.

She lives in California so it’s a treat to have her here to deliver a workshop based on her new book Reclaiming The Wild Soul. Then we’ll have lunch in the Veg Box – the best vegetarian food in Canterbury.

Ha! I’ve blogged! Time for breakfast. What are you all doing today with your one wild and precious lives?

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Responses (5)

Well Vicky, just writing poetically about seeing Andrew Motion last night and a lady being taken very ill in the middle of it to the extent I think she’d come to the end of her wild and precious life listening to Poetry. Had two concurrent thoughts; nice way to go and second – my first dead body.

Whilst we waited for the ambulance (btw she ‘s alive) and for them to attend, got talking to people, made mistake of asking Do you write? Trapped like a testicle in a zip, I listened to two people rant about what they wrote and why. In short, it was therapy. Could have gone straight to wok with Amoy and asked, ‘why are you angry?

I missed speaking to AM who did radio 4prog last sun called ‘Coming Home’ soldiers’ conversational transcript poems. We did this with Gray at ty Newydd and am doing collaborative poetry project with my 94 yr old gran using this fantastic process. Would like to have chatted to AM but seeing to poorly sickly lady meant evening cut very short and he had to trot on lickety split for taxi and train with a filthy cold.

Hi Vicky lovely ruminations as usual I’ve been reclusive for a few weeks not even on Facebook, gearing up for the trips to the attic which are now finally happening, as I start proper work on the next book nothing quite like the enclosing comfort of space light time meditative thought allowing one to open up again after drought … xxx c